


The Psychologist in the Scientist's House

by igrockspock



Category: Bones (TV)
Genre: Families of Choice, Food as a Metaphor for Love, Gen, Past Child Abuse, Season/Series 08
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-21
Updated: 2021-02-21
Packaged: 2021-03-14 09:27:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,412
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29043843
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/igrockspock/pseuds/igrockspock
Summary: When Lance unexpectedly finds himself living with Booth and Brennan, he's determined to figure out how to contribute to the household.
Comments: 14
Kudos: 59
Collections: Chocolate Box - Round 6





	The Psychologist in the Scientist's House

**Author's Note:**

  * For [nilshki](https://archiveofourown.org/users/nilshki/gifts).



Lance might be sleeping on Wolverine sheets in an eleven-year-old’s borrowed bedroom, but he’s not a child -- no matter what the team at the Jeffersonian might say behind his back -- and he’s not a freeloader. He intends to prove that to Booth and Brennan immediately.

He figures if he sets an alarm for 5:30, he can get breakfast done before they even come downstairs. _Oh,_ he’ll say, _no big deal, I’m just a morning person._ Which is not technically even a lie, because two PhDs by twenty-two is mostly a matter of time management, and that includes getting an early start on the day whether it comes naturally or not.

Waking up without hitting the snooze button is harder than he remembered, and when he stumbles down the stairs, Brennan is already sitting on the sofa, holding Christine.

“Sweets,” she says, “You’re up early.”

“Yeah, I’m a morning person,” he says. It sounds a lot less convincing than he’d hoped for, considering he hasn’t combed his hair or put in his contacts. He’s squinting through his glasses, the ones with the prescription he hasn’t updated since undergrad because his insurance sucks.

Brennan just nods and says, “I’m also a morning person. It’s a much more efficient way to use time. I tried to explain that to Booth. I even made a productivity chart, but he didn’t listen.”

“His loss, I’m sure,” Lance affirms, feeling both guilty and relieved that Brennan isn’t the sort to recognize even a bald-faced lie.

She eyes the cookbook in his hand. “Are you making breakfast because you feel bad about living here without paying rent?”

“Yes. Yes, I am,” he says, opting to be forthright this time. “Where are the mixing bowls?”

He’d hoped Brennan might disappear somewhere while he’s cooking, maybe take a shower or take Christine outside to play. Her watchful gaze is unnerving, and he feels a sudden rush of sympathy for the interns in the forensics lab. His ruse of being a useful roommate feels destined to die before it’s even born, but his mother’s notes in the margins of the cookbook save him. She’s highlighted all the important things, like leveling the flour with the back of a knife, and mixing the dry ingredients separately from the wet ones. He wonders suddenly if this was her first cookbook, if she’d learned to cook in the exact same halting steps.

“You’re more adept at this than I anticipated,” Brennan says, watching as he whisks the milk with the eggs.

“Oh yeah, I do this every Sunday,” he lies. He sends a silent thank you to his mom, wherever she is, and chooses to believe she can hear. The hard thing about losing your parents at twenty-two is that there’s no one to tell you how to be an adult, nobody to call when you need to know how to organize your bills, or feed yourself and the new roommates you never expected to have. But then, just when you think you’re on your own for good, you find them again in strange places, like the margins of a yellowed cookbook from the 1970s.

Predictably, Booth appears when the oven timer chimes. Somewhat less predictably, he’s wearing nothing but a pair of plaid boxers. He takes one look at Lance, mutters _goddammit_ \-- which is not how Lance hoped to be greeted this morning -- and scuttles back around the corner.

“There’s no need to be prude, Booth,” Brennan says. “I’m sure Sweets is aware you have the usual male parts. They’re very above average, I might add!”

“Thank you _so much_ for sharing that, Bones,” Booth says, and Lance hears the soft _snick_ of the bedroom door closing again.

Brennan shrugs. “You were aware, right?”

“Yes, thank you for that mental picture, Dr. Brennan.” Lance bends down to retrieve the muffins from the oven, grateful for the excuse not to meet her eyes.

By the time Booth re-emerges from the bedroom -- fully clothed this time -- the muffins have cooled, and Brennan’s eating one enthusiastically while feeding tiny pieces of another to Christine.

“Sweets made us blueberry muffins, and they’re better than yours,” she says.

Lance watches Booth carefully, not sure whether to be elated -- he beat Booth at something! -- or fearful, because Booth can be irrationally competitive about almost anything, and if it comes down to it, Lance will definitely lose any protracted contest.

“Yeah, I really doubt that,” Booth says, launching into a long monologue about his grandfather’s storied muffin recipe from the Korean War.

Brennan interrupts to say, “It’s true that Sweets’ muffin recipe wasn’t smuggled out of a POW camp in anyone’s underwear, but the macronutrient profile is far superior. He used whole wheat flour and applesauce in place of oil.”

Booth drops his muffin back on the cooling tray, wincing. “Yeah, you know, I’ll just pick up something from the diner on the way to work. I’m a little rushed this morning.” He offers Lance a reasonable facsimile of a rueful smile.

Then Brennan says, “There’s brown sugar on top. It caramelized pleasantly in the oven.”

“Well, in that case,” Booth says, reaching out for one of the muffins.

Lance watches out of the corner of his eye as Booth devours one, then another. The note at the bottom of the recipe says, _Add sugar to top - dr. says L. needs calories._ He says another silent thanks to his mom before he closes the book. Still looking out for him after all these years.

After he gets dressed, he finds the cookbook is on the shelf above the stove, exactly the same place it lived in the last house he’d called home.

***

As a therapist, Lance advises his clients to be as honest as possible about who they are. Misrepresenting oneself only leads to awkward misunderstandings.

Like your housemate pounding on your bedroom door at 5:30 a.m.

He is, thankfully, not one to sleep in the nude. If he were, he surely would’ve opened the door in his bleary state and given Brennan much more than she wanted to see.

“Since you said you’re a morning person, I came to see if you’d like to run,” she says brightly. She narrows her eyes, scenting dishonesty. “You _are_ a morning person, right?”

As a therapist, Lance also advises his clients to quickly come clean if they happened, in the heat of the moment, to have misrepresented themselves. Otherwise, misunderstandings will continue to compound, and honesty will grow increasingly uncomfortable.

“Absolutely!” he says, feigning his very best smile. “Just give me five minutes and I’ll be downstairs.”

***

Thirty minutes later, he’s leaning against a tree, sternly telling himself that he will not, under any circumstances, vomit.

Brennan’s standing over him, looking equal parts confused and annoyed. “You swam competitively in college, did you not?” she asks. She glances at her smart watch. “Your mile time is very poor.”

“Yeah, well, undergrad was a long time ago,” he says in between gasps. 

“You neglected physical conditioning in favor of academic pursuits. A common mistake, but unwise in our line of work. What if you needed to chase a suspect in the field?”

Lance nods, willing to extend the conversation at all costs if it means he can keep leaning against the tree. “You’re completely right. I’m woefully unprepared.”

“You should also consider adding martial arts to your fitness routine. I found it very helpful when I began working in the field with Booth. I’d be happy to teach you.”

He wonders vaguely if he’s sweaty enough for the scars on his back to show through his white shirt and decides that even if the answer is yes, Brennan’s not thinking about them. But he is, and he’s healthy enough to admit that allowing an even vaguely parental figure to take swings at him on a regular basis is an absolutely terrible idea.

“You know, I think we should stick to the running for now,” he says, managing a decent level of assertiveness in spite of his ragged breathing.. Hopefully enough that she won’t push the martial arts plan.

Brennan nods. “Focusing on a single goal can yield greater results. If we trained regularly, I believe we could reduce your mile time to eight minutes.”

If she thinks that, then she thinks he’s going to stay with them for a long time, and she’s okay with that.

Lance smiles, even though he still kind of wants to throw up. “How does Tuesday, Thursday, and Saturday sound?”

***

Back at the house, he packs his lunch. If he cuts the diner down to Mondays and Fridays, he can save up for a security deposit faster.

He’s about to cut the crust off his sandwich when Booth takes the knife out of his hand. “Adults don’t do that,” he says, spinning the knife around in his hand in a way that reminds Lance that he can definitely kill people with a butterknife.

Even so, Lance opens his mouth to object. He’s quite obviously an adult after all; he has the voter registration, the beer in the fridge, and the porn under the bed to prove it. But okay, maybe he shouldn't mention that last part, especially not while he’s living in Parker’s room.

Booth shakes his head before Lance can even open his mouth. “Uh-uh, buddy. My house. My rules. People over the age of five eat the crust.”

“It has many valuable nutrients,” Brennan adds, making his humiliation complete.

***

Two weeks into his stay, he’s still careful not to think of Booth and Brennan’s place as home, however much he actually wants to. Then he gets off work early on some random weekday, and Brennan shoves an overfilled wine glass into his hand the second he walks through the door.

“You’re already behind,” she says, which is a mildly alarming statement, because Lance pretty much _always_ aims to keep up.

“Behind on what?” he asks, trying to manage his jacket and his briefcase without spilling the wine.

“Drinking. Obviously.” Brennan looks at him pointedly, as if asking why his glass isn’t empty already.

“Wouldn’t a vodka shot be more efficient?” he says. “And more importantly, what’s happening?”

Brennan sighs. “Chrstine is sick. Since Booth’s department is being audited tomorrow, it was only logical that I take off work to pick her up from daycare. Now she’s asleep, so I’m drinking.”

Lance peeks at the living room. Christine’s passed out in her playpen, her tiny face red and streaked with tears. The TV above her is on mute, but if he had to guess, it’s been playing the music video for The Wheels on the Bus on a continuous loop. Now that he’s had a chance to look, he notices the dark circles under Brennan’s eyes and the handfuls of hair that escaped her sloppy attempt at a ponytail. He knows, obviously, that she must have days like this -- everyone does -- but he’s never seen her look so _normal._ Like a mom who just had a shitty day, and not a world class scientist who also happens to be an unofficial field agent for the FBI. 

“You realize you’re not a bad mom if you had a bad day, right?” Lance asks.

“Of course,” Brennan says fast. She pauses. “But it’s possible I needed to hear it, so thank you for saying it.”

“You’re a great mom!” Lance says enthusiastically. Validating people is kind of his jam. “The way you manage her development and --”

“I don’t want to talk about Christine anymore,” Brennan cuts in, pouring herself a fresh glass. “I require adult conversation. Even though your intellect is misdirected, you are intelligent and I believe you can provide mental stimulation.”

“Just so you know, I’m aware that your mildly cutting remark is an attempt to compensate for your previous show of vulnerability,” Lance says, because boundaries are important when you’re dealing with Brennan. “Not that we need to talk about it anymore. So, agree or disagree: artifacts should be returned to their countries of origin, even if they don’t have the best preservation tools.”

“False dilemma,” Brennan answers quickly. “The artifacts should be returned, and whoever took them should provide the funding and education for preservation techniques.”

“Okay, but what about situations where the government is just going to steal that money, or where museum guards take bribes to allow flash photography?” Lance pushes. He wasn’t the Connecticut state runner-up in high school debate for nothing.

He figures Brennan will lay into him with six counterarguments he hadn’t expected, but instead she says, “While I’m not certain that colonial powers can judge the merits of another country’s government, your perspective is worth considering.” 

That’s high praise, coming from her, and Lance allows himself a small smile while she rummages around in the refrigerator. 

“I made us comfort food!” she exclaims, emerging with a big silver bowl.

Lance wonders what comfort food means to a vegetarian as healthy as Brennan. Some roasted potatoes, maybe? Dare he hope for mashed? Then he realizes he’s stuck on the wrong part of the sentence. She said _us._ I made _us_ food. Which means she was waiting, specifically, for _him_ to come home.

Whatever’s in the bowl, he’s going to eat it.

Except that it’s salad. Not the green leafy kind, which he can handle, but a jumble of mozzarella, tomatoes, avocado, and onion. 

“I don’t think comfort food means what you think it means,” he says, reluctantly picking up his fork.

“I find this very comforting. The avocados are very fresh.” 

“Yes, yes they are,” Lance agrees. He spears one with his fork, silently vowing not to be undone by mushy fruit. It goes down okay, but why does anyone _like_ this texture? Maybe Brennan won’t notice if he just eats the tomatoes and the cheese.

“Poor nutrition may account for your poor athletic performance,” she says, dashing Lance’s hopes. “If you’re this picky as an adult, you must have been an _extremely_ picky child.”

He follows Brennan’s gaze to the six baby food jars lined up on the counter, each of which looks like it was rejected after one bite. After that, he gets why she’d be testy, and he thinks about doing what he usually does, drifting along with other people’s assumptions about his childhood. Which, if he’s being honest with himself, is a barrier to forming intimate relationships and something he’s going to have to get over now that the thing with Daisy’s done for good.

“Actually, I ate garbage and cat food. It was kind of a big deal to learn I didn’t have to eat food I didn’t like,” he says. Then, because the wine’s going to his head, he adds, “There was a big incident when I first went to stay with my parents. I didn’t get why the cat had its own special food no one else could eat.”

He figures Brennan will say something overly direct and mildly insensitive, which is fine. Really. Anything but pity.

“It’s not surprising that someone who beat you also did not supply adequate food.”

Yup, there it is. He’s not in control of this conversation, but that’s a thing that happens when you share.

“They sold the food stamps,” he says. Looking back, it might have been the entire motivation for having foster children in the first place. Well, that and looking good in front of the church.

He braces himself for another uncomfortably direct comment, but the silence stretches out, and when he looks over at Brennan, she’s blinking hard.

“I’m becoming emotional,” she says, not looking him in the eye. “Since becoming a mother, I find the mistreatment of children very upsetting.” She pauses. “Please don’t eat the avocados, or anything else you don’t like. I’ll speak to Booth about the bread crusts.”

“No, no, it’s okay. That was a long time ago, and I should learn how to eat like an adult.” Purely as an experiment, he tries a piece of the avocado with an onion and finds that even though he doesn’t like either on their own, they go together pretty nicely. “Okay, actually, there’s one thing. Whatever it is you call bacon, but it’s not --”

“Tempeh,” Brennan fills in. “A mixture of fermented soybeans and other whole grains. It’s very good for your colon.”

“Yeah, I don’t ever want to eat that again.” Lance manages not to gag at the memory, but it’s a close thing.

“Okay,” Brennan says simply, and there’s no argument, no discussion, no lengthy explanation of nutritional facts. He doesn’t want to eat it, so he doesn’t have to. That’s that.

On the next grocery day, a package of actual bacon appears in the refrigerator drawer. Booth waits for Brennan to leave, and then he whispers to Lance, “How did you get this?”

Lance shrugs. “I don’t know, man. Maybe I’m just a better negotiator.”

Booth squeezes his shoulder. It’s a little too hard. Okay, a lot too hard, but Lance isn’t going to say anything. It’s important to accept another person’s love language, even if it doesn’t match your own.

“You get bacon in this house, you stay as long as you want. And if you get beef jerky, as far as I’m concerned, you can stay forever.”

He decides, cautiously, to start thinking of this place as home.

***

Lance works late on Friday because he’s the kind of nerd who does that kind of thing, and he catches the tail end of a phone conversation while he puts away his bag.

“Well, if you really can’t make it,” Brennan’s saying. Her voice is sharp in that way Lance remembers from their therapy sessions, when she was trying to cover up some other, more vulnerable emotion.

He comes around the corner to the kitchen, and Booth and Brennan are there, dressed up and obviously planning to go out.

“Max canceled on us. There’s no way we’ll find a sitter,” Brennan tells Booth. She sighs. “I’ll call the restaurant and tell them to give away our table.”

Lance doesn’t need to be a therapist to know this is about more than missing a date night -- although he’d wager she wants that pretty badly, after the exhausting day with Christine earlier this week. When you’ve been abandoned, nothing matters more than consistency, and Max had let her down. Again.

“I can watch Christine,” he says, wondering if he should be insulted that they hadn’t thought to ask in the first place. But then, his goldfish Swimothy had met an unpleasant end; it’s no wonder they hadn’t wanted to trust him with a baby.

Booth and Brennan look at each other. Lance braces himself for an onslaught of questions and wonders if they’ll give him time to google the answers. He _really_ hates to get things wrong, especially if it means he won’t be able to help his friends.

But Booth just shrugs and says, “Yeah, that’ll work. Don’t drop her on her head.”

Brennan nods. “Babies are actually quite resilient. Tuareg nomads begin carrying them on camel treks through the Sahara almost as soon as they’re born.”

“She’s saying you’ll be fine.” Booth gives him another one of those bone-jarring shoulder smacks and deposits Christine in his arms. And just like that, Lance becomes responsible for a tiny human life.

***

Lance wakes up on the sofa with Christine nestled against his chest.

“Would you look at that? They’re cute!” Booth is saying.

“Sleeping in this manner is not recommended by the American Association of Pediatrics, but is widely practiced around the world.” Brennan pauses, and Lance hears her camera phone click. “And yes, they are cute.”

“Reading and everything.” Booth reaches over the coffee table. “Pat the Cat, Pat the Bunny, and...Therapeutic Strategies for Children with Avoidant-Restrictive Food Intake Disorder? No wonder they’re both asleep!” 

“At this age, when verbal comprehension is limited, the content of reading material doesn’t really matter. This is probably good for her vocabulary.” Brennan pauses, and Lance can imagine her frown. “Even if it is psychology.”

Lance finally cracks his eyes open. “You realize _everything_ you do for Christine comes from developmental psychology, right?”

Booth nudges Brennan with an elbow. “Ouch. He kinda got you there.”

It would be easy to laugh it off, but Lance holds eye contact, demanding an answer. Just because Brennan’s doing him a huge favor by letting him live here doesn’t mean he has to let her malign his life’s work at every opportunity.

“I can concede you may have a point,” she says stiffly, holding out her arms for Christine. “And thank you for the emergency childcare.”

As they walk toward the stairs, he hears Brennan murmur, “This living arrangement is not without merit.”

“I’ll say,” Booth answers, and in the morning, Lance realizes the list of apartments he’d planned to call is missing from the kitchen counter.

“Hey, there was a list over here…” he says, pointing at the corner of the island.

“Yes, I believe I saw --”

Booth cuts Brennan off before she can finish. “Maybe the cleaner threw it away.” He offers an unconvincing look of chagrin. “I’m really sorry about that. Were any of them good?”

Lance shakes his head. “I didn’t really want to live in Baltimore with a guy named Sparky. Or his chihuahua.”

Booth looks over his shoulder to make sure Brennan isn’t in the kitchen anymore. “Hey, between you and me, you don’t need to be in a hurry to leave. Brennan doesn’t like to say it, but she’s a new mom, and you know, she kinda needs the extra backup.”

“And you don’t?” Lance asks. God, he’s such a glutton for affirmation.

Booth shrugs. “Hey, I’ve done this before.”

Lance magnanimously doesn’t point out that Parker had lived with his mom a good eighty percent of the time.

“Anyway, those oatmeal packets you made? Genius! I can’t get Brennan to buy the ready made ones, you know? She says they have chemicals or something.” He waves his hands vaguely. “Real time saver. She appreciates it.”

“Just Brennan?”

“Okay, fine, I like them too.” Booth shoves his hands in his pockets, looking suddenly awkward. “All I’m saying is, you find a good apartment, you take it. But if that takes a few more weeks, it’s alright.”

Lance nods, because hugging Booth is not allowed. Which is dysfunctional, but he’s not their therapist anymore, and anyway, that’s not a battle he’s going to win.

“Thanks, man.” He says, all manly and businesslike. “I appreciate it.”

He nods at his mother’s cookbook on his way upstairs. Homemade oatmeal packets, page 243.

***

Positive coping skills can become maladaptive if not adjusted to new circumstances. That’s what Lance tells himself as he bravely subs steamed veggies for french fries at the diner. Yes, when he was six years old, it was important to learn not to eat food that tastes bad And yes, being allowed to refuse food gave him a sense of power and control he sorely needed, and picking a substitute from the fridge gave him proof that there really, truly was plenty of food to eat. His mom had known what she was doing.

But now that he’s twenty-seven, refusing to challenge himself with textures and flavors outside his routine is maladaptive. And also embarrassing, now that he lives with adults who enjoy a healthful and varied diet.

So he’s going to eat this steamed broccoli whether he likes it or not, and he’s going to do it with a smile on his face. Or at least not an obvious grimace. Just therapist face. Brennan won’t even notice.

“That’s not going to taste very good,” Brennan says matter-of-factly.

Lance huffs and puts down his fork. 

“When you go to a restaurant, you should eat what it specializes in. This establishment does _not_ specialize in vegetables.” Brennan gestures at the checkered tablecloths and the line of short order cooks just visible behind the pass-through. “I’ll make you roasted broccoli tonight.”

“Really?”

Lance shouldn’t feel this stupidly, ridiculously grateful. He doesn’t even _like_ broccoli. It’s just, no one had specifically cooked for him since his parents died, and he’d forgotten how nice it feels.

Brennan nods. “I read one of the developmental psychology journals you left in the bathroom. It said that children with textural aversions are more likely to try unfamiliar foods if they’re crispy. I thought that advice might apply to you as well.” 

Lance feels heat rising to his cheeks. He’s not a child. He’s got two PhDs, a voter registration card, and beer to prove it. And arguing about whether or not he’s a grownup is exactly what a child would do. Better to focus on the positive.

“You read psychology? Voluntarily? And listened to it?”

His plan had worked!

Brennan shrugs like it’s no big deal, but he doesn’t miss the way she swallows and carefully clears her throat, like she’s saying something delicate and important.

“Yes.” She inhales. “In our conversation last week, you raised a valid point. Perhaps I was too hasty when I dismissed psychology as a field of study.”

This time Lance doesn’t even try to hide his grin.

***

Six months later, Lance saunters into the kitchen after a respectable 8:17 mile -- he hadn’t wanted to vomit even once! -- and throws together an omelet with leftover roasted broccoli and actual mushrooms. While he waits to flip it, he heats up Christine’s bottle and passes it to Brennan the exact moment she walks into the kitchen.

They’ve become a well-oiled machine, and he allows himself a good sixty seconds of regret as he pulls up the apartment listing on his phone. Georgetown. Two roommates, both psychologists. Rent comfortably below thirty-three percent of his income.

This is the one, and it’s time.

What doesn’t evolve eventually dies. Brennan could tell him that.

Positive coping strategies can become maladaptive if not adjusted to new circumstances. He has two PhDs to tell him that.

He knows now why he’d tried so hard to make it work with Daisy, and why he’s stayed here for so long: he needed to know he had a place in the world. He’d needed a home.

Now, he picks up the phone and dials the number. “Hi, I’m Lance. Are you still looking for a roommate?”

The words roll off his tongue. He waits for the familiar surge of reluctance and doubt, but it doesn’t come. It’s easy to leave, now that he knows he has a home.


End file.
